"Yes! My trunk. I'm afraid I jumped into the muddy water after it, and ruined my clothes." Of course, she'd never jump in the Mississippi, but he didn't know that. She wasn't about to admit she was terrified of the water.
"That was a foolish thing to do, but I don't understand why your clothes would be ruined. Wet and dirty, perhaps, but not ruined."
"Shredded," she embellished. "Caught on something underneath the water and ripped to shreds."
"Driftwood, no doubt." He seemed to be taking her story seriously, which was good. She wasn't sure what she'd do if he denied the possibility of her claims. "Were you injured then?"
"Yes, I hit my head when I was pulled back into the boat."
"So," he said, folding his arms again. "You remember all of this, but not how you walked into my house?"
Ah, so he had been trying to set a trap. "No, I don't actually remember everything that happened that horrible day," she said, adding a dramatic flutter of her hand for emphasis. "I relied on what others told me, since I hit my head."
"And this was how long ago, Miss Galloway?"
"Just a few days."
"No one could find you anything else to wear except these inappropriate trousers and ill-fitting shirt?" His riding crop again flicked toward her chest.
She scooted back on the soft mattress, which threatened to swallow her into its depths. "No, I suppose not."
"I find that hard to believe."
She shrugged, since she didn't have an answer.
"Where were you headed when this accident occurred?"
She glanced around the room, then answered with the partial truth. "Here."
"Black Willow Grove was your destination?"
"Yes."
"Miss Galloway, I was not expecting you. I have no idea why you were journeying to my plantation."
She crossed her fingers in the depths of the feather mattress and said a silent prayer that her next lie would work. "Well, that's very simple.
I'm
your daughter's new governess."
"Don't
be ridiculous. The only person who was supposed to be on a packet was Miss Agnes Delacey. And you, Miss Galloway, are a far cry away from that proper young lady."
"No, not really. You see, she's actually a very good friend of mine."
He gave her a look which said she and the saintly Miss Delacey weren't in the same league. Heck, he probably doubted they were the same species.
His continued interrogation and blatant skepticism were interrupted by two servants who brought in an armload of dresses, undergarments, and shoes. One of the women carried what Randi assumed was a sewing basket. Good Lord, she really was in
Gone With the Wind
!
Jackson Durant's eyes narrowed while he watched the women enter. "We'll continue this conversation later," he said, before starting for the door.
"Wait," Randi called out before he disappeared into the depths of the house.
"What is it, Miss Galloway?" he asked impatiently, riding crop clenched against his thigh.
"I don't want to be a bother. Won't Mrs. Jackson miss these dresses?"
"Mrs. Jackson," he said deliberately, as though the very name angered him, "is dead. She won't miss these frocks."
With a turn of his heel, he strode from the room, leaving Randi alone with two servants.
"Please, put those down on the bed," Randi said softly.
So, his wife was dead, leaving him with a baby to raise and a plantation to run. No wonder he was so curt. Some might even say rude. She hadn't known him long enough to form a firm opinion, but first impressions told her he was an extremely results-oriented man who didn't have time for foolishness. Not a warm, friendly, type. Not exactly a "people person."
She sighed, then pushed herself off the bed. With outraised arms, she twirled in front of the two attentive women. "Make me into an acceptable lady, please," she asked. With wide-eyed disbelief, they continued to stare at her hair, her clothes, and her shoes.
"Okay, I know we've got our work cut out for us, but you'd be surprised. Really, I clean up pretty well."
#
Jackson galloped away from the house, his mood as dark as the gelding he rode to the far cotton fields. What a ridiculous female! Dressed like disreputable boy, with unusual-colored blond hair shorter than his, she should have been nearly indistinguishable from any young male. Unfortunately, she didn't look--or feel--like a boy. Curves in all the right places, firm and sweet-scented, she'd sent him reeling when she'd swooned in his arms.
How was he supposed to stay angry with her when she was constantly feeling ill? For someone who looked healthy, she certainly didn't have a strong constitution. He only hoped Randi Mae Galloway had no illnesses that might be passed along to Rose. She'd held his precious child in her arms, and who knew what else she'd done--or would have done--without his presence in the nursery?
The gelding snorted, pulling against the reins. Jackson held him in check, not wanting a mad dash that could destroy the fragile young plants beneath the horse's powerful hooves. He wanted order in all things, but unlike his control over this animal, his life never seemed to achieve such a blessed state. That ridiculous young woman's appearance in his house was just another example of how little control he seemed to possess at times.
Randi. What an absurd name--as strange as her clothing and shoes. The woman was a walking contradiction. Dressing like a male, sounding and acting like the most fragile of women, she possessed both a smart mouth and a vivid imagination. He didn't believe for a minute that she'd lost her trunk and the clothes she wore in some accident aboard a packet. Why she wanted to be at Black Willow Grove remained a mystery, but one he would solve. However, there was no reason to let her know he was suspicious of her story or her activities. Common wisdom said that if he gave her enough rope, she'd hang herself.
Jackson slowed the gelding to a trot, then to a walk, as he neared his newest cotton field. His overseer strode between the last two furrows, near where a shallow levee separated the land from the Mississippi. Between the green plants, the field hands pulled weeds from the rich soil, tossing them aside to be trampled underfoot. Only the best, most sturdy vegetation for the plantations along this exclusive section of river. Nothing as lowly as a weed would be allowed to live in the select confines of the elite.
Jackson narrowed his eyes, his hands tightening on the reins. He was one of the wealthy planters now. He'd sold his smaller plantation downriver for the opportunity to join these men. He was now one of those who'd pushed the river back from the fertile land, who commanded thousands of field hands, and produced millions of dollars from almighty cotton.
He'd paid the price in blood and sweat. He was one of them.
His overseer began to walk toward him, but Jackson waved the man away, content to sit in the shade of a cottonwood tree and watch the hands work the land.
This section of land had been part of the marriage settlement between him and his neighbor, Thomas Crowder. Pansy Anne Crowder, the polished, accomplished daughter of one of the region's wealthiest planters, had been a prize in herself. Jackson still had trouble believing he'd been the man who'd won the hand of the fragile beauty. Their marriage had been so brief that at times he thought his vague memories of polite conversation and even more polite couplings were nothing more than a dream. They'd married, honeymooned in New Orleans, settled into Black Willow, and then Rose had been born.
Within a week of the birth, Thomas Crowder's fragile, delicate flower had died of childbed fever, never recovering from the rigors of bearing their daughter. Her father blamed Jackson, of course, for planting his seed in such fertile but precarious soil.
Jackson had not blamed himself; one of the reason's he'd married Pansy was for the purpose of producing children, not because he'd loved her to distraction. He left love to society's poets. Jackson was too busy building an empire. And empires were much easier to build with land from a wealthy and generous father-in-law.
Thomas no longer had his daughter, but he did have a grandchild. If he wanted to see Rose in the future, Jackson had reminded him, he should uphold his end of the marriage bargain and sign over the land he'd promised.
Personally, Jackson thought his daughter would be better off without the influence of her bourbon swilling, meddling grandfather, but in fairness to Rose, he would allow her to grow up knowing the man. Jackson thought that concession was very open-minded of him.
With a nudge of his bootheels, he urged the gelding toward the overseer. "Brewster," Jackson said with a nod. "How goes the work today?"
"The soil is wet, but the weeds not too plentiful," the man said, wiping his balding head with a cloth.
"We've had no rain this week, but I see the river is up."
Brewster settled his hat on balding head. "Might be a good idea to build up this levee a bit, just in case the snowmelt upriver pushes the Old Man over his banks."
"See to it, then. Weeding will do us little good if the cotton is underwater."
Brewster wiped his head again. "It'll be done."
Jackson nodded, then turned the gelding back toward the house. He wondered what he'd find when he walked in this time. If there was a God in heaven, Miss Randi Mae Galloway would appear more like a proper young lady and less like a lowly field hand.
Then perhaps he could deal with her better, more objectively. And he would find out why she'd claimed to be a friend of Miss Agnes Delacey . . . and Rose's new governess.
#
After tea and toast, corsets and lacing, Randi felt much more like a genteel Southern lady. Unfortunately, she'd learned that eating and lacing didn't go together very well, and that using the primitive facilities in yards of petticoats and skirts was not the easiest task a woman had ever performed.
As a matter of fact, she'd gotten so tired from her ordeal of fitting and dressing that she needed a nap. In her time, she'd slept about one hour since midnight. Right now she should be sound asleep, about three hours away from the buzz of the alarm clock that got her up each morning at seven o'clock.
She glanced at the stack of her comfortable clothing, neatly folded on the room's only chair, and wondered if she should hide these twentieth century garments. Probably. Jackson Durant would no doubt order them destroyed since he found her so repulsive. And her fanny pack! Fortunately, he'd ignored that item when asking questions earlier. She couldn't let him get his hands on her money, driver's license, or keys. She wouldn't be able to explain those so easily.
"Loosen up this dress, will you, Melody?" she asked one of the two servants who'd played lady's maid and seamstress for the last hour.
"Yes, ma'am," the girl said, tackling the endless row of hooks and eyes that ran from neck to hips on the less fancy of the three dresses they'd brought in for her to try on.
"How is Mr. Durant to work for?" Randi asked in a conversational tone as Melody continued her task.
"The master is just fine, ma'am," she replied in a respectful, almost automatic tone of voice.
"No, I mean really. Is he short-tempered, mean, unreasonable?"
"No, ma'am."
"Would you tell me if he were?"
The girl was silent for a long time, but Randi felt her fingers working on the fastenings near her waist. Soon they were all undone, and Melody tackled the laces on the corset they'd convinced her was necessary for all ladies.
"The master is fine," she finally said.
"He seems a little angry to me. I wonder if he's always been that way?"
"I wouldn't know, ma'am. I've just been here the last year, after Miss Pansy married the master."
Pansy? His dearly departed wife's name was Pansy? Well, Randi supposed that was an appropriate name for a Southern belle. And with their daughter's name of Rose, Jackson Durant had a whole flower motif going. To him, accustomed to such feminine names, the name Randi must seem totally wrong.
But Pansy? Oh, well. Randi shrugged out of the dress, leaving on the camisole and pantaloons they'd insisted she wear instead of her underwire bra and serviceable cotton bikini underwear with the Mickey Mouse logo.
"I'm going to take a nap now," she announced. "Thanks for all your help, and I'm really grateful that we didn't have to alter much on the dresses. At the moment, I'm just too tired to appreciate them. Could one of you wake me for dinner? I've got a feeling I'm going to be famished."
The two servants looked at each other, then Melody spoke up. "Yes, ma'am. I'll wake you in time to get ready for dinner."
"Thanks." Randi sank into the bed, feeling smothered by its depths once again. She rolled to her side, then stared out the window. In just a few seconds, she heard the door close as the two women left. Good. She needed to be alone, to think about what had happened and maybe figure out why. Not that she was really good with big picture, high concept ideas. She was more of a detail person.
The only "detail" she could figure out right now was that her life was in the hands of an angry, skeptical man.